Run to You
by JessicaStone134
Summary: A woman recalls her time on the streets and the horrors of her life before she met a certain detective who helped her through it, and showed her that she was worth so much more than she believed.


**Just a random one shot that popped into my head a few days ago which I thought I should write down. I hope you enjoy!**

As I walked along the cold, dark, unforgiving streets, I pondered how my life had ended up like this. This shouldn't have been my life; my life should have been so different. I should have gone to university like I had wanted, got my degree in Social Work which I was so desperate to do, I should have been helping children right now, helping those who needed it. But truth was, is, that I was the one who needed helping. The sad truth is that my life isn't unusual; there are so many girls who ended up just like me; a lot of them even worse. But then I met _him_, he who would understand me exactly, help me through my past and current trauma. But before I met him, my life wasn't my own, not really.

I was 16 when I left home, barely any GCSE's, barely any money. Me and my dad, we didn't get on well, and that's putting it lightly. I was a disappointment to him. I was an only child, and coming from a well off family, it was safe to say I was spoilt, especially by my mum. But at 15, I fell in with a bad crowd, you know the drill, I was rebelling against everything my parents believed in. By the time I'd finished taking my GCSE's ( not that it was worth it in the end anyway) I was doing drugs, drinking, sleeping with as many guys as I could get to. I had always looked older than I actually was, and I knew that I was good looking. That's not me being cocky, it's just the truth. I had dark brown hair that skimmed my shoulders, wide amber eyes framed by thick lashes and an ample cleavage. I used my looks to my advantage. They would provide me with money in the near distant future.

My parents, mainly my dad really, had had enough of me. I came home early one morning after a night of sex and drugs to find a black sack full of clothes outside of the front door, with an envelope with £500 on top. I couldn't believe they had actually chucked me out, even though my dad had been threatening me with it. I crashed at a male acquaintances place for a while, for a price, while I figured out what I was going to do. Basically I was screwed, in more ways than one.

I ran out of money quick through drink and drugs, no surprises there really. I was a waster, just like my dear daddy had always said. I started to work the streets, using my looks to my advantage. I didn't have a pimp, I wasn't anyone's bitch, I kept all the money I earned, no sharing with others. This was good in one respect, but it also meant I didn't have anyone to watch my back. I didn't know that the patch I had started to work regularly already belonged to someone has; but it didn't take long to realise my mistake. One night while working, I was badly beaten by the girl's pimp; a warning in one regard, a helping hand in another.

That man who beat me ended up as my pimp, my boyfriend, my jailer. At 27, he was 11 years older than me, with artfully messy blonde hair and glinting blue eyes, a right charmer. His name was Freddie Johnson, the owner and namesake of _Freddie's Gentlemen's club_, a well frequented strip club. The men who used the club were anything but Gentlemen though. As well as becoming Freddie's bitch on the street and private whore at home, I became the key attraction at the club. My once beautiful dark hair was dyed a generic whore's blonde; my skin which once had a natural glow to it was dulled by cheap foundation; my amber eyes which once sparkled beautifully were swamped with clumpy black mascara. I wasn't recognisable anymore. I wasn't at home in my own skin.

By the time I was 20, any spark I had once had was gone. There was no excitement in my eyes, no soul, nothing. I was an empty vessel, temporarily filled by cheating men who liked to believe that what they did to me was fun and naughty, enjoyed by both themselves and me. How wrong they were. I always felt dirty. Even now, so many years later, I have to shower three times a day, scrubbing my body until it's red raw and stinging.

That life that I led which lasted for six years finally ended when I was 22; but it didn't end well. At the time, I was still whoring myself out to get money for Freddie, still working the pole at the club, still acting like the doting girlfriend I wasn't. It all came to a head when I got pregnant. It was Freddie's; I didn't let any punters have sex with me unless they wore protection. Freddie didn't believe in contraception, said it was unnatural. But he wouldn't believe me when I told him about our baby, called me a cheating whore, punished me violently by raping me so hard I bled on the cream living room carpet. Once he was done, he beat me up so bad I couldn't see through my eyes they were that swollen. I passed out near enough as soon as he started attacking me; I have no idea what happened next, and the bits I do know were given to me later by the doctors, nurses and police. I woke up in hospital a day after the attack, being told by an unfeeling nurse that I'd been viciously raped, lost my baby and had to have a hysterectomy, as well as suffering broken ribs and bruised bones. That day wasn't all bad however, it was the day my life changed for the better, the day I met _him._

He walked into my private room at the hospital a few hours after I had come round, wanting to take my statement. He told me that my neighbour had been the one to find me after hearing shouting and screaming, wanting to check that I was alright. He had been the one to call the ambulance and police, and he'd given them a statement of what he knew, which admittedly wasn't a lot. When the detective showed up to do my statement with me, he was unbelievably tender and gentle with me. I know now that it was because he'd been through some of it himself. I hadn't wanted to give a statement at first, didn't see the point, I would end up going back to Freddie anyway, and potentially end up dead at his hands. But he helped me to see that it was the right thing to do, that I was worth so much more. I didn't believe him of course; girls like me are almost programmed to accept that the treatment we get is exactly what we deserve; every single bruise and broken bone is deserved. But eventually he got through to me, showed me my life could and would be better if I gave that statement and put Freddie away for a long time. I finally did something for myself, all thanks to him.

I'm now 27 years old and in love with a man who showed me I was worth so much more than I believed. After the statement was done, the detective gave me his card, told me to ring him if I needed him. I didn't want to at first, didn't want to appear weak, but eventually I took him up on his offer, I just needed someone to talk to. Those late night chats saved me. But I thought it was only me getting anything out of it; what I didn't realise was how much he got out of them too. He only recently told me that he'd never revealed that much of what happened to him to anyone but me. He told me how much he valued our late night talks, how he began to looks forward to them more and more, and to seeing me more. We knew that, what with him being a cop and me being a victim he had helped, we weren't supposed to have certain feelings for each other, much less act on them. But you can't fight love.

My name is Faye Davies, soon to be Faye Webb. I wrote down my story to show all the other women and girls who are in the same situation as I was that it can get better. You just have to believe in yourself and find someone who loves you so much it makes up for all the pain you suffered. I am so thankful that I found my blonde haired, sparkly blue eyed knight in shining armour when I did. Thanks to Mickey Webb, I will never look back, I'll only look forward.


End file.
